


Scratch your name into the fabric of this world

by bloodylullabies



Series: Lightbringer AU [3]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: A Chosen in the Making, Age of Legends, Before the Breaking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:34:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodylullabies/pseuds/bloodylullabies
Summary: Joar Addam is a harpist struggling for recognition. But when Elan Morin Tedronai takes a personal interest in his career, it doesn't take long for Joar to finally become the acclaimed musician he always knew he was destined to be.





	Scratch your name into the fabric of this world

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to have read Lightbringer to understand this one-shot. I'm just giving my Jolan ship the backstory it deserves.

_Alas, my love, ye do me wrong_

_To cast me off discourteously._

_And I have loved you so long,_

_Delighting in your company._

 

Joar approached the bar slowly. His heart was still pounding in his chest; he felt nauseated. His hands were shaking badly. He all but fell on the high-backed stool, and his forehead hit the oaken counter with a barely audible thump. The band that had taken over from him was quite loud. Everyone in the Gardens appeared to be dancing to their rowdy music. The bartender had to ask for his order twice; Joar didn’t hear him the first time.

“Wine,” he yelled over the noise.

The bartender rolled his eyes. “Which sort?”

Joar stared at him. He didn’t know much about wine. Nothing, really. He always drank ale. Or coffee, if he had to keep sober for whatever reason. But this was the Ansaline Gardens. He couldn’t order ale here. They probably didn’t have any. Not refined enough.

“We’ll both have some ice wine, please,” another man called out. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down on the stool beside Joar and turned to face him. “That was an impressive performance.”

Joar eyed him warily. He was tall and elegantly dressed. His skin was pale, and he sported a well-trimmed beard and moustache. His dark brown eyes twinkled behind square-rimmed glasses. “Thank you?” he replied hesitantly.

“Well, except for those two wrong notes at the beginning,” the man amended.

Joar held his head in his hands, pulling at his hair in frustration. His _one chance_ at performing at the Ansaline Gardens, and he had screwed up royally. He’d been waiting for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for _decades_. And he’d wasted it because he was too nervous, fumbling with his harp like an amateur. “Do you think anyone else noticed?” he mumbled dejectedly.

The man laughed. He had a rich, pleasant voice, and his laughter boomed despite the ambient cacophony. “I’m sure they didn’t. They’re all quite drunk.” The bartender came back with their drinks and settled them on two fancy-looking coasters. The man paid for them and told him to keep the change. “Besides, the rest of your repertoire amply made up for the earlier mistakes. Are they your original creations?” he asked with keen interest.

Joar nodded mutely. He didn’t feel much like talking, especially since it would require shouting.

The man placed one hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere quieter,” he offered.

Joar hesitated. He was exhausted; he had spent all day rehearsing, and most of the previous night panicking. He hadn’t slept much in the past week, in fact. But he was intrigued and, after one sip of the…ice wine, he decided that he liked it very much. He followed the man, who led him toward a spiral staircase. Joar hadn’t noticed it before. There was a sign indicating “authorised personnel only” but the man shoved it aside and started climbing. After what felt like a thousand steps they reached the roof of the building. They were alone, though the space was decorated as though people often came here. Perhaps it was reserved for privileged customers. The man certainly looked distinguished enough to be one of those.

He pointed to a couple of deck chairs and they sat down side by side. The air was still warm, a promise of heat in the morning. Spring had come late this year, but the past fortnight had been almost summer-like. There were too many lights for them to distinguish the stars above, but the moon was full, shining down on them like a spotlight.

“I don’t know where are my manners,” the man said apologetically. “My name is Elan,” he introduced himself.

“I’m Joar,” he replied. “And to be fair, I wouldn’t have caught it if you’d said it earlier.”

“True. Your successors are not quite as subtle as you were.”

That was one way to put it. Joar wouldn’t even call that music, but he had classical tastes. To each their own, he supposed.

He did a double-take. Elan? Why was the name familiar? “Are you…Elan Morin?” The man had a third name, but Joar couldn’t remember it.

Elan sighed heavily. “Yes,” he admitted. “And here I was, hoping to go unnoticed, for once.”

“Sorry,” Joar murmured.

Elan laughed again. The sound echoed in the empty air. “There’s nothing to apologise for. I’m used to it,” he said resignedly.

Joar cleared his throat. “Do you come here often?”

“At least once a week, when they introduce would-be talents such as yourself. They do that every Friday evening.”

Joar was well aware of that. He’d been trying to book a gig at the Gardens for twenty years. “Talent seems an overstatement in my case,” he grumbled.

“Now, don’t say that. You were quite good, really you were. In fact, I overheard Sedric Alban claim that he’d like to offer you a career opportunity.”

Joar almost twisted his neck as he turned his head to gape at Elan. Alban was one of the most famous impresarios in the Western Territories. And Joar hadn’t even noticed that he was there tonight! “I…really? Are you sure? If this is some twisted jest…”

“It’s not, I assure you. Though I’m afraid he left early, with his…lady friends.”

Escorts, most likely. A man of Alban’s status could afford them. He was said to be wealthier than Lews Therin Telamon himself.

“He seemed intoxicated, but should he forget that he said that, you ought to pay him a visit in the morning and remind him,” Elan advised him.

Joar snorted. He would never dare do such a thing. He’d suffered enough rejection; he didn’t need it from Sedric Alban, of all people.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Elan went on. “I’d be happy to accompany you. If you’d like.”

Joar looked at him sideways. “You would do that?”

Elan nodded. “Of course. Your music deserves to be known.”

“Seems to me like you were the only one who appreciated it,” Joar said wistfully. Compared to the excitement that the new band was arousing among the audience, even the thunder of applause following Joar’s performance seemed insignificant. They’d probably only clapped out of pity, anyway.

“Lack of self-confidence may be endearing in certain people, but I find yours completely irrelevant and, may I say, a tad irritating,” Elan stated.

Joar frowned at this most glaring incivility. “I beg your pardon?” he demanded indignantly.

Elan chuckled. “That’s more like it. Didn’t you notice how thoroughly enthralled everyone was while you played?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Sometimes, an apparent absence of reaction is worth a thunder of applause. Which you still received, should I remind you.” He shrugged. “We were simply afraid to disturb the peaceful ambiance you’d created. It was quite pleasant; the Gardens are rarely so quiet.” He took a sip of wine and nodded approvingly. “I, for one, could have listened to you play for hours.”

Joar felt his cheeks heat up at the compliment and, when he realised that, they burned even hotter with embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said in a small voice.

“Do you play other instruments?” Elan asked with unfeigned curiosity.

“Ah…yes. Several, in fact. But the harp always had my preference,” he explained. “Do you play?” For all his fame, Joar didn’t know much about Elan Morin. He’d never read any of his books, nor any interview he’d ever addressed to the celebrity newspapers. He knew he used to be a professor at the University, but he’d retired a long time ago, before Joar attended.

“I own a piano,” Elan acknowledged. “But I am merely a dilettante.”

Joar smiled enthusiastically. “The piano was my first instrument, actually.”

“Do you own one?”

“Oh, no. Mother sold it, after Father died.” Joar had been outraged that she hadn’t even bothered to consult him. That had been one of their worst arguments, and the one that ultimately caused him to move out of the family house. His apartment was tiny and in dire need of repairs, but the tranquillity of the place made up for it. His sisters weren’t constantly bickering or singing out of tune, and his mother wasn’t yelling at them to stop. It was almost eerily quiet – even now, years after he’d effectively left Shorelle. They rarely met nowadays. His sisters had all moved out, married their husbands – or wife, in Shireen’s case – and bred children, most of whom Joar had never seen. His mother called him every week, and he let her ramble on while working on his music. She’d visited him once at the apartment, declared it was a wretched place, and had never mentioned visiting again – which suited Joar just fine.

“You could come by my place and use mine, if you’d like,” Elan said with affected casualness.

It certainly wasn’t a casual proposition. Joar had already figured out by then what the other man was after, and he was of a mind to agree to it. Not for the piano, though that was an appealing bonus, he had to admit. “I would like that,” Joar conceded. It had been a while since he’d dated a man, but he was getting tired of women. They could be so annoying and clingy and possessive. And demanding. They cost him a lot of money, too. The more he thought about his latest conquests, the more inclined he was to get better acquainted with Elan. He decided to be a little bolder – he seemed to like that. “And in the morning, perhaps we can visit Master Alban…” He drained his glass of wine and chanced a glance at Elan.

He was grinning. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

 

Joar was improvising a little ballad on the piano when Elan finally descended the stairs, though he didn’t register his presence right away. Once he started working on his music, the rest of the world faded to the background. Only a fire would have shaken him out of his trance – or, in this case, Elan placing his hands on his shoulders, leaning forward and, whispering in his ear, asking what he’d like for breakfast.

Joar smiled. Right then, breakfast was the last thing on his mind. He stood gracefully and pulled Elan in for a kiss – they were about the same height, which was a pleasant change. Elan didn’t protest, on the contrary. They ended up crashing on the couch, and it wasn’t until two hours later that they finally stumbled into the kitchen, Joar now ravenously hungry.

To his surprise, Elan did all of the cooking himself – scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and toast with salted butter. Joar had expected servants, given the size of the place.

“I have a maid,” Elan explained as he piled up a generous amount of bacon slices on Joar’s plate. Not for the first time, he wondered if the man could read his mind. “She comes in twice a week to clean. I enjoy cooking for myself, though, when I have the time.” He stocked up his own plate and sat opposite Joar.

They hadn’t talked much that night, obviously, but now Joar’s curiosity was piqued. “How do you know Alban?”

Elan chuckled. “Anxious to meet him, are you? One might think that you indulged me only for the career opportunity,” he added slyly.

Joar blinked in dismay. “What? No! I just…”

“I’m only teasing, Joar. Relax, for goodness’ sake. Are you always so tense?”

“No,” he answered truthfully. “This is important to me, but I wasn’t indulging you, Elan. I had a great time.”

“Me, too.” He shovelled a large portion of eggs and chewed conscientiously. “Tell me, what is it you do, exactly? Are you still at the University?”

“Oh, no, I finished my dissertation years ago. Now I…” He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. “I work at the local theatre,” he mumbled. “And I play on weekends.”

“Where?”

“Wherever they let me,” he answered bitterly.

Elan nodded in understanding. “I’m sure those days are at an end. Alban will launch your career in no time, you’ll see.”

“Don’t get my hopes up, will you?” Joar muttered. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling too hungry. He pushed his food around the plate. “I’ve had enough disappointments to last me a lifetime.”

“Are you still wallowing in self-pity?” Elan asked with a faint sigh. “Trust me. Alban will be delighted to meet you, and I can foresee an album in the very near future, and international tours.” He eyed Joar’s plate. “Are you going to finish that?” Joar shook his head. His stomach had turned to lead at the idea of meeting with Alban.

Elan finished both their breakfasts and sat back on his chair. “You should wash up before we Travel upstate.”

Joar grinned at him. “And you should join me in the shower.”

 

 

The Alban manor was twice the size of Elan’s residence. It was an eyesore; too many different styles rounded up in one building. The interior, which Joar first glimpsed when the butler answered the door, was even worse: clunky furniture, animal heads on the walls, statues of scantily-clad ladies, gilded frames around portraits of Alban himself, posing in different outfits, each one more ridiculous than the last. The floor was cold white marble, the staircase a monstrosity of polished mahogany. The butler ushered them in after Elan explained that he was an old friend, and they walked for a good five minutes before reaching the conservatory. It was the only room that could be described as tastefully decorated, in Joar’s opinion: exotic plants and colourful pictures of birds and butterflies, an old-fashioned world map, low-intensity glowbulbs. Alban himself was seated in a cosy chair, sunglasses on, a mug of steaming kaf in front of him. He didn’t move when the butler moved forward to announce his guests. Alban didn’t turn to them right away. He whispered something to the butler, who quickly exited the room, without sparing them another glance.

Joar was beginning to feel uneasy. Were they intruding? The man was clearly hung-over. Perhaps they should come back later. He opened his mouth to suggest that very thing to Elan when Alban finally deigned to acknowledge their existence. “You again,” he said bitterly. That couldn’t be good. Elan had assured him that they were friends. Why the surly welcome? Elan paid the words no mind and stepped forward, a ready smile on his lips. He sat opposite Alban and indicated another seat to Joar, who took it hesitantly. “What do you want this time, Tedronai?”

Elan tsked. “Now, now, Sedric, cheer up! I’ve brought you a present.” He gestured toward Joar. “This is Joar Addam. Surely you remember him?”

Alban scowled, not even looking in Joar’s direction. “He was at the Gardens yesterday, yes. What about it?”

“You said you wished to record him. Don’t you remember?” he asked idly.

Alban muttered something indistinct under his breath but made no intelligible sound, so Elan went on. “I assure you, it would be a grave mistake to ignore his talent. He has much potential.” There was an undercurrent in his tone that Joar couldn’t identify.

Alban exhaled slowly then took a long gulp of kaf. The mug clanged on the table when he set it back. _What is going on here?_ Joar wondered. These two didn’t look like they were friends. Quite the contrary. His sense of uneasiness increased with every passing second.

“Fine,” Alban said eventually. The impresario turned to him, and Joar was glad for the opaque sunglasses. He had a feeling that Alban was glaring daggers at him. “What do you play?”

Did he have to ask? He’d just said he remembered him from last night! Joar swallowed some bile. This was not how he’d imagined the meeting to proceed. “The harp, sir.”

Alban snorted. “The harp?” He eyed Elan as if he’d gone mad. “The harp! Nobody plays the harp anymore, Tedronai,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s completely out-dated.”

“So is the flute,” Elan pointed out calmly. “Yet Rhana Lossein is one of your most famous protégées.”

Alban huffed in annoyance. “Not this again,” he grumbled, so low that Joar wondered if he’d been meant to hear it. After a minute, Alban threw his hands in surrender. “Fine! Have it your way.” He turned to Joar once more. “Bring me everything you have, all your demos, and I’ll see what I can do.” He paused. “I don’t recall hearing you sing. Don’t you sing?”

Joar was taken by surprise. “Ah…I…I can sing, sir, but my works have no lyrics.”

“Well, they should.” He addressed Elan. “There’s only so much I can do, Tedronai.”

Joar blanched. “It’s just… I’m not very good with words. With lyrics. I’ve tried but-”

Alban smiled viciously. “He’s good with words,” he said with a wave in Elan’s direction. “Have him do it. Then I’ll consider it,” he said with a triumphant, malevolent smirk.

Joar was at a loss for words. What _was_ going on here? The two men were staring at each other – or at least, Joar assumed Alban was, behind his sunglasses. Eventually, the impresario lowered his head and focused on his mug. “Now get out,” Alban spat out. “I’m a busy man.”

The butler escorted them out without a word and closed the door on their backs. Joar turned to face Elan, but he was already walking away. Joar stalked up to him. “What in the Light was _that_? You said he was your friend!”

“I may have exaggerated that part,” Elan admitted. “He’s an acquaintance, at best.”

Joar’s mouth worked as he struggled to find the words. “You…you lied to me!”

“That’s a strong word for it,” Elan said. He stopped in his tracks and faced him. “Look, Joar, do you want this or not?”

“Well, yes, obviously. But not like this! Not by bullying Alban into it.”

Elan scoffed. “Bullying? I’m not bullying him. He owes me, that’s all. A favour for a favour.”

Joar regarded him sceptically. “What favour?”

“Years ago, I caught him with a girl in the lavatory at the Gardens,” Elan explained.

Joar cocked his head sideways. “And?” That was hardly a crime. It happened all the time.

“A _girl_ , Joar. Not a woman. She couldn’t have been a day over fifteen.”

The penny finally dropped. “Oh,” was all he could think to say. “So you’re…blackmailing him.”

“I suppose you could call it that,” Elan replied with a shrug.

“Wouldn’t it be better to…I don’t know…turn him in? To the authorities? Wouldn’t the girl want that? Justice, or…compensation?”

“The girl was Rhana Lossein,” Elan said.

Joar blinked. “I don’t-”

“She didn’t want the story to go public. She was in a…difficult situation, back then. Alban wanted to force himself on her in exchange for…well, all of this. The fame, the recognition, the money. She had no one. No family.” He passed a hand through his hair. “So we came with this…solution instead. Rhana got what she wanted, and Alban walked free. No big scandal to dirty his reputation and destroy the empire he built.”

“That doesn’t seem…morally satisfying,” Joar put in. “What if he does it again?”

Elan chuckled dryly. “He knows better than that. You’re the fifth person I’ve brought here. He knows he owes me. As for morals…” He shrugged again. “It was the best thing to do, a compromise that suited everyone.”

That was hardly the point, in Joar’s opinion, but Elan was the philosopher, after all. “The fifth person?” he said instead. “Well, someone’s been busy.”

Elan frowned at him. “They were all like you, struggling musicians desperate to break through. I gave them the push they needed, nothing more.”

“Did they enjoy the piano and home-cooked breakfast?” Joar asked acidly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like that.” Elan sounded angry.

Well, Joar felt angry, too. “Thanks for the _push_ , Tedronai, but I think I’m better off on my own. I don’t want _him_ anywhere near me.” Light, he felt dirty just knowing he’d been sitting next to Alban. He wanted to break through, yes, but not like this. He felt like an accomplice to a crime now, knowing that about Alban without being able to report him – who would believe him? He was a nobody. They would assume that he was trying to destroy Alban because the impresario had turned him down. Besides, at this point he would be doing more ill than good, probably ruining Lossein’s career just when it was at its peak.

He hated being so conflicted. Elan had just ruined everything for him. Without another word, Joar embraced _saidin_ and wove a gateway – leading back to his shitty apartment. He didn’t look back as Elan called after him.

 

 

The interphone rang weakly. It wasn’t broken, exactly, but not quite functioning, either. Joar couldn’t hear what his caller said, but he buzzed them in regardless. It was probably Mallia, anyway. She’d forgotten her scarf the last time she’d come over – though that had been almost a month ago. Then again, who needed a scarf in the summer?

There was a knock on the door and Joar opened it, then cursed when it revealed Elan. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I’ve come to make amends,” he replied quietly. He indicated the papers in his hand. “Your lyrics.”

Joar scowled at him. “What?”

“Will you let me in, Joar?”

He hesitated, then moved away to let Elan pass. The older man looked around the room with an air of curiosity. “I know,” Joar forestalled him. “It’s not much. But it’s all I have.” He pointed to the mouldy sofa bed and sat on a chair as far away from it as possible, given the size of the room.

Elan took a seat and set his papers on the minuscule table. “Alban had a point. Your songs should have lyrics. Here they are.”

Joar scoffed. “And how, pray tell, did you manage to write lyrics to music you don’t have access to?”

“I have an excellent memory.” He shrugged. “This is a peace offering, Joar. I’m sorry if I…offended you. And there’s more,” he went on with a small grin. “I’ve found you a proper impresario. He’s eager to work with you.”

Joar stared at him in disbelief.  “How did you…? Why would he be eager to work with me, if he’s never heard me play?”

“I played a few of your songs for him on the piano. He loved them all, but he agreed that it would be better if you sang, at least on some of them.”

“How-” Joar shook his head. “Never mind. Who is it?”

“Gerry Tespian. He’s quite new in the field, but he has a good ear. He’s into the classics. A perfect fit for you,” he said smugly.

Tespian. Yes, Joar had heard about him. He used to work at the Conservatory in Mar Ruois. “So you invited him over at your place to play for him.” He _knew_ he shouldn’t have said that out loud, but it was the only thing his brain had apparently picked up from the entire conversation.

Elan’s face became impassive. “Joar,” he said, very softly, “whatever is _wrong_ with you?” He stood up. “I’m trying to help you. Surely you can see that?”

“Why? Why are you doing all this? Elan, we barely know each other. You don’t owe me anything. And if you want to have people over at your place, it’s not my problem.”

“Of course it’s not your bloody problem!” Elan shouted. Joar flinched at his vehemence. “You were the one who implied that it was. And for the record, I do _not_ sleep with all of my guests,” he added haughtily. He picked up the pink scarf that covered one of the pillows – Joar had left it there to conceal a stain. “Unlike you.”

Joar felt himself blush involuntarily. “It’s not… She’s not important. We’re not steady or anything.” That was an understatement. He hadn’t seen or heard from Mallia in a month. She’d probably forgotten that he existed.

Elan took a deep breath. “Can you _please_ try to focus on the matter at hand? It’s your career we’re talking about. This is serious, Joar. Tespian doesn’t owe me any favour; he’s genuinely interested in meeting you.”

“How do you know him, then?” Joar asked stubbornly.

“I’ve been approached to replace him.”

Joar sat forward in his seat. “Replace him? At the Conservatory?”

Elan nodded. “He was head of his department, and he taught the piano. He recommended me as his successor, though I’m not sure why. I hadn’t heard from him in…oh, a few decades, at least.”

“But you said you were a dilettante!” Had he lied about that, as well?

Elan looked strangely embarrassed. “I am. I was. That is, I never imagined to make it my profession. But I’m still relatively young. Can’t retire forever, can I? I need to explore new horizons. And I’ve been playing the piano for over two hundred years…” He trailed off with a shrug.

Two _hundred_ years? That was almost as long as Joar had been alive! “Has Tespian produced anyone famous?”

“Not yet. He’s been in the business for about a month. But he already has six albums lined up, including a delightful cello player. She’s quite good. Tespian let me hear a sample.”

Joar had a sense of foreboding. “What’s her name?” he asked with affected casualness.

“Mallia Abrakan.”

 _I knew it!_ Joar scoffed loudly.

“You know her?” Elan readjusted his glasses impatiently. They were always sliding down his nose; Joar couldn’t understand why he didn’t have his eyes fixed. That was what Healers were for. Joar didn’t answer, but his eyes strayed involuntarily to the pink scarf. Elan smirked. “Oh. I see.”

“At least it explains why she hasn’t been returning my calls,” Joar said fatalistically. He cleared his throat. “Well then. Should I call Tespian or…?”

Elan shook his head. “I’ve already arranged an interview. You’re meeting him next week. He had a slot for today, but I thought you might need some time to prepare. Peruse the lyrics, maybe make a few more demos…”

Joar exhaled in frustration. “I wish you’d told me earlier,” he muttered. “I don’t have _any_ demos. I don’t have the equipment.”

Elan sought Joar’s eyes, a faint smile playing across his lips. “I do,” he said idly. “Would you like to come over?”

They didn’t get much work done that day.

* * *

They were attending the Charity Gala organised by the Collam Daan every year. It was the first time that Elan had actually attended an event with Joar as his…date, and he was a bit tense. He’d taught at V’saine for over seven decades. These were people he knew – or used to know. He recognised several lecturers and professors, and a few waved at him, but he didn’t try to strike up a conversation. It had been too long. He’d lost interest in the affairs of the University. If not for Joar, who’d been excited to show off after receiving his third name just a week past, Elan wouldn’t have come at all.

Then he noticed someone he hadn’t expected to see: Barid Bel Medar.

How long had it been? A hundred years, or near enough. Barid was scowling darkly at the people who were dancing in the centre of the lavish ballroom, a glass of red wine forgotten in his hand. He was wearing a well-adjusted pinstripe suit, with a green bowtie that matched the colour of his eyes.

It was a surprise to see him here. Barid was as fond of these social gatherings as Elan himself.

Elan approached him; Joar was busy bragging to a group of young women. They didn’t appear particularly interested in what he had to say, but that wouldn’t deter Joar, Elan knew.

Barid didn’t see him until he was at his shoulder. His head swivelled in his direction, and he broke into a genuine grin. “Elan!” They shook hands. “Didn’t expect to see you here. You never come to these things.”

“Neither do you,” Elan pointed out.

“Rarely,” Barid admitted. His face grew sombre as he cast another glance toward the dancers.

Elan noticed a couple who seemed to have become the centre of attention of all. The man was Lews Therin Telamon; Elan would have known him anywhere. He was wearing a fitted royal-blue suit, with white lace at the sleeves. The woman’s dress was as golden as her hair. They were completely absorbed in each other, apparently oblivious to the fact that every eye was on them.

“Is that…Ilyena?” Elan enquired after a moment. She had been one of his students, in another lifetime.

Barid only grunted in reply. It might have been a yes.

“I thought you two were...” Elan trailed off when Barid's blazing green gaze fell on him, a dangerous light gleaming in his eyes.

“I never understood what the fuss was all about,” Joar cut in cheerfully. Elan frowned at him. He hadn’t heard him approach. “She's conventionally pretty, at best.” He took a sip of his wine – a decade-old vintage from the Eastern Territories. His taste in wine had vastly improved since they’d first met.

Barid turned around, looking ready to murder him on the spot, so Elan intervened. “Joar, this is Barid Bel Medar, a former student and business partner of mine. Barid, Joar Addam Nessosin.”

Joar grinned, as he always did when anyone uttered his third name aloud. “Renowned harpist,” he added, proffering is free hand.

Barid eyed it as if it were a new species of cockroach, fists clenching at his sides, but he quickly regained his composure. His face smoothed. “If you’ll excuse me.” He drained the remainder of his glass and, with a last glance toward the dancers, he stalked away.

Joar chuckled. “Was it something I said?”

“You did insult the love of his life,” Elan chided him.

Joar cocked his head slightly. “I didn’t say anything about Lews Therin,” he protested teasingly.

Elan snorted with unbidden laughter, then scolded himself silently. He shouldn’t make fun of Barid. Lews Therin was always making fun of him, belittling him – affectionate teasing, Lews called it, but Elan doubted that Barid saw it that way. He was much more sensitive than he let on. Lews Therin, on the other hand, was a brash man who enjoyed being the centre of attention. He threw shade on everyone who kept too close to him, and Barid had stood in Lews’s shadow for far too long indeed.

* * *

It wasn’t yet obvious that Mierin Eronaile and Keile Beidomon had doomed the world, but Elan Morin Tedronai was, as usual, far more perceptive than everyone else, far more aware of the consequences of the drilling of the Bore.

The Voice spoke to him, crooning and caressing, invading his dreams, tugging at his brain even as he lay wide awake.

_COME TO ME, TEDRONAI._

_COME TO ME, MY CHAMPION._

And why should he resist it? The Dark One was bound to be victorious, eventually.

Why fight Him, when it would do nothing but delay the inevitable?

* * *

The Ansaline Gardens were unusually quiet. The barely average pianist who had been providing background music was now having a drink at the bar, and there were only a few patrons here and there, mainly couples.

Joar Addam Nessosin was comfortably seated, waiting for his own date. He would never dream of calling the two of them a couple, never aloud, but wasn’t it what they were? It had been years since Elan had first approached him, only a few paces away from where Joar was now sitting. He was even sipping ice wine, just like that day.

Of course, they hadn’t always been together. Sometimes months went by that Joar didn’t see Elan at all, or even heard from him, especially when he was on tour abroad. Not that it would require much effort from either of them to get in touch, no matter how far apart they were – a call, a gateway, and they could be together. They simply never bothered. Elan understood that Joar enjoyed his ‘alone’ time when he was on tour; he had a lot of groupies, and Elan would only serve as a hindrance. He’d never seemed interested in participating in such activities, to Joar’s disappointment.

But then Joar would return home – to his brand new penthouse, not that dingy one-room he used to rent – only long enough to drop his luggage and call Elan, and they would spend the evening together at Elan’s place, discussing the latest events, Joar regaling his lover with saucy anecdotes from his voyages. They would end up in bed, and Joar wouldn’t leave Elan’s house until his impresario got impatient with him and demanded new material.

They never really talked about their relationship. It was what it was, and Joar, at least, was quite satisfied with the way things were. He didn’t want to commit to a serious, labelled relationship, but at this point giving up on Elan would be near-impossible. He was possibly the only person in the world whom Joar actually _liked_ – the only person around whom he felt comfortable, the one man he trusted and respected. Elan always encouraged him, supported him, and he always provided sensible advice.

Come to think of it, perhaps they ought to discuss their relationship in more details, Joar thought idly. Sure, he had many flirts and casual flings, but he was convinced that Elan, no matter how much he denied it, did the same when Joar was away. And why not? They weren’t tied in any way.

Except that now Joar felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy, a surge of possessiveness whenever he thought of Elan sleeping with other people. It was a novel sensation to Joar, and it was a bit…disturbing. He’d never expected to actually fall in-

“There you are,” Elan said, taking a seat across from him. Joar blinked, his train of thought interrupted, sensing that something was off.

Elan didn’t greet him beyond these three brisk words, didn’t smile, and he wouldn’t even meet Joar’s eyes. He was studying the menu, as though he didn’t know it word for word, and he seemed…tense. His hair was tousled, his glasses smudged and awry on his straight nose. There were stains on his shirt, which didn’t look as though it’d been ironed, either.

Odd. Elan was usually quite fussy about his appearance, especially when he was out in public. Something was _wrong_.

Joar moved his hand forward hesitantly to take Elan’s, but didn’t make it that far; Elan removed his hand swiftly, pretending to readjust his glasses. Joar began to feel more annoyed than worried. It wasn’t uncommon for Elan to be a bit grumpy – he was very moody – but Joar usually knew _why_.

“Good afternoon to you too,” Joar said dryly. “I hope you had a pleasant day at work.” Elan made no response whatsoever. “My day was peachy, thank you for asking. Mallia came by the penthouse, nearly begging me for a duet.” Just like that, Joar lost sight of the matter at hand and actually replayed the events of the day. He’d been dying to tell Elan all about it, and he bloody well would, whether the man wanted to hear it or not. “Poor thing. Her career really took a sad turn,” he went on with utterly faked sympathy. “I told her I would consider it. I’ll leave her to stew for a few weeks-“

“We must put an end to this,” Elan interrupted him suddenly, his voice almost too soft to hear.

Joar’s unspoken words died in his throat and he was left gaping in shock. Of all the times to… Joar had just been considering officially upgrading their relationship, and now Elan wanted to _end_ it?

The thought of pretending that the last ten seconds hadn’t happened at all vaguely crossed his mind, but he was far too stunned to pretend. “You can’t be serious,” he whispered. “Elan, I know I’ve been away for a while, but I _did_ offer to book you a spot in-”

“This has nothing to do with your futile tours!” he retorted viciously. His face was contorted with anger.

“Then tell me what it is, burn you! What have I done, and what can I do to make it-”

“The world does not revolve around you, Joar,” Elan cut him off. “This is not about you.”

Joar snorted incredulously. “You want to put an end to our _decade-long_ affair, but it has nothing to do with me?”

“Affair? Is that what you call it?” He sniggered. “We’re nothing, Joar. Casual lovers. Acquaintances with benefits, nothing more. I can’t believe I put up with you for so long.”

That stung; more than it should, perhaps, but Joar kept his face impassive. “Well, why did you?”

Elan shrugged carelessly. “You are an entertaining presence. You make me feel…younger. And I did enjoy parading you around in social gatherings. Everyone agrees that you are quite pretty.”

 _Pretty_? If he’d tried to repeat the word out loud, Joar would have choked on it. “What on earth are you talking about? You _loathe_ social gatherings. _I_ was the one parading _you_ around.”

“Of course you’d believe that,” Elan said with a smirk. “You fool.”

“Oh, really? Are we resorting to name-calling? I don’t…” He exhaled sharply in frustration. “What brought this on, Elan? What’s happened? What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I feel as though I’ve awaken from a long, numb dream,” Elan said quietly. “Like I’m finally seeing clearly. Why would I want to be with you? I have given you so much, and I’ve received nothing in return. I’ve put up with all the drama, with your mindless flings with nothing but patience and understanding, never once complaining.”

Joar stared at him. “You said… You _said_ you didn’t care! By the blood falls, Elan, you know I don’t give a damn about any of them! They’re just…a way to pass the time, when you’re not around. Burn you, why didn’t you say something, if it bothered you so much? I would have-”

“Stopped?” Elan said with an arched eyebrow.

Joar blushed furiously. He would have at least _tried_. “You never gave me an opportunity to prove myself. I had no idea… And if it did bother you, why did you never agree to accompany me on tour? I’ve practically begged you to come, several times!”

“You know I have no interest in these meaningless things,” he said dismissively. “Besides, I suffer you quite enough when you’re invading my home, my personal space. I don’t need to suffer you abroad as well.”

 _Suffer_ him? “You said you loved having me at your place, playing music for you,” Joar said, unable to keep the hurt tone from his voice this time.

Elan rolled his eyes. “I swear, if I have to listen to you play one more time…”

Joar’s breath caught in his throat. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been lying to you from the beginning, Joar. How can you not see that? I wanted to _bed_ you, you nitwit. I wasn’t interested in your bloody music.” Joar sat on his fancy leather-backed chair, struck speechless. Apparently, Elan wasn’t quite done. “You were never destined to be great. You’re not even good. You’re…average.” He turned slightly to point at the pianist who, at some point during their argument, had returned to the stage. “This could be you. This _would_ be you, had I not irrationally decided to invest myself in your career.” His eyes were as black as obsidian, devoid of light; no, devoid of _life._ Had he gone mad? Clinically mad? Was he having a stroke? Should Joar call for a Healer?

He opened his mouth to genuinely enquire about his lover’s well-being – Elan couldn’t possibly mean any of this – but Elan forestalled him. “Why do you think I appealed to Alban first? I knew that no self-respecting impresario would have agreed to represent you, Joar. Not without coercion.”

Joar shook his head in denial, all thoughts about requesting a Healer fleeing his mind. “But Tespian-”

Elan smiled mirthlessly. “Lucky for me, Tespian doesn’t appear quite as crooked and malevolent as Alban, and he owed me a favour as well.” No. He was lying. He had to be. Tespian was an honest man. Joar didn’t have time to counter-argument, however. Elan was set to deliver the final blow. “Without my lyrics, your music is worthless. _You_ are worthless.”

The words reverberated inside Joar’s skull, but they seemed devoid of meaning. “But I’m famous!” he exclaimed. “I was the first musician to be awarded a third name in centuries!”

“And who do you think put in a good word for you? Who made it all possible?” Elan sighed heavily, a pitying smile stretching his lips. “Face it, Joar. Without me, you are nothing. Everything you think you’ve ‘earned’ could be gone in an instant.” He snapped his fingers so brutally that Joar flinched. “But I won’t do that. You’re not worth my time. I’m done with you.” He stood up smoothly, ever graceful, despite his dishevelled condition. “Pray remove your things from my house before nightfall. I will be out the rest of the day.”

Elan started to turn, but Joar jumped to his feet, his chair crashing down loudly behind him, and grabbed his arm. The few scattered patrons threw them curious glances. “Don’t you _dare_ walk away from me like this,” he hissed. “I deserve a proper explanation, Elan. If you ever cared for me at all-”

Elan removed his hand with a grimace, likely both at the fact that Joar had dared touch him without his permission as well as at the commotion he was causing. He must have hoped that Joar wouldn’t make a scene if they were in public. Well, that was an uncharacteristic lack of foresight. He would do well not to underestimate Joar, delusional, mediocre musician that he may be.

“Have you been listening to a single word I said?” Elan snarled, though he kept his voice low. “I do not care, nor have I ever cared, about you, you pathetic-”

That was it. The last straw. Joar grabbed his glass and flung the remainder of his ice wine in Elan’s face.

For a moment Joar felt like he’d broken through the spell. Elan stood staring at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, with a genuine expression of shock on his pale face. He looked more like himself than he had in the previous…how long had it lasted? How long had it taken Elan to utterly destroy Joar’s life? Five minutes? Ten?

The other patrons were politely ignoring the scene, though Joar could almost feel their stolen glances between bits of shallow conversation. The bartender wore a disapproving frown on his tanned face, his waxed mustachio nearly bristling at the disturbance. They must have recognised both of them. This would make the headlines on the morrow. Joar likely wouldn’t be welcome at the Gardens any longer.

Not that he cared about any of that.

Elan eventually regained his composure, his back straightening, and he grabbed a napkin on the nearest table to wipe his face. Then, without even a glance in Joar’s direction, he stalked away, ignoring the intrusive glances and gossipy discussions as he headed for the exit.

Joar’s heart, which had somehow gone through the last ten minutes without giving sign of life, suddenly decided to remind him that it had been broken, shattered, demolished, at some point during Elan’s surrealistic rant.

As a result, Joar, who had hoped to march out of the Gardens with his head held high, had to sit back down, feeling faint, nauseated, and wishing he could simply curl up in a ball on the wine-spattered floor and cry his eyes out.

He failed to remember that he’d upturned his chair and tumbled to the floor in a heap, his head hitting the wall behind him. People rushed to his aid, but he barely saw or heard them.

Elan was right, Joar thought as the bartender called for a Healer. He couldn’t even sit on a bloody chair, but people expected him to play the harp masterfully? He was useless, he was a fool. A blind, naïve fool.

He was nothing.

 

 

Two weeks later, Elan Morin Tedronai committed the greatest betrayal of all, and became henceforth known as Ishamael – the Betrayer of Hope.

Joar found out the same way as everyone else who hadn’t been present in the Hall of Servants that day: via the media. He was slumped in his expensive white couch when the report came in, but it took him a while to discern the words through his wine-induced torpor. At first he assumed that he was hallucinating. Elan was a lot of things, but he was not _evil_ ; he would never-

But it was Elan, alright, Joar realised when he finally found enough energy to turn and face the screen. Elan stood tall and dignified before his former peers. He was dressed all in black, not a hair out of place, a grim expression on his handsome face. He looked like a cliché villain in the nonsense plays Joar used to write scores for.

Elan, committing himself to the Dark One because, according to him, it was the only option that made sense.

Elan, forsaking mankind, just as he had forsaken Joar.

Elan, who was no longer Elan.

Disgusted, Joar switched off the screen with a weave of _saidin_ and hid under a pile of blankets.

He would await the end of the world there.

* * *

“I thought you might pay me a visit sooner or later,” Elan mused as Joar approached the impeccable mahogany desk. “How long has it been, Nessosin?”

“Since I threw wine in your face?” Joar asked dryly. “Ninety years, or near enough."

Elan chuckled, but it seemed forced, faked. It felt as though he’d forgotten how to laugh. He indicated the chair on Joar’s side of the desk, and Joar sat down gingerly. Creepy _zomaran_ were roaming about the room, which only increased his sense of uneasiness.

He had no idea what to expect. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here. What was he looking for in this dreadful place, why was he seeking out the man he despised most in this world? The man he hated with his entire being?

“You wish to prove me wrong,” Elan said softly, as though he’d read his mind. Could he be doing that _through_ the _zomaran_? The very idea was enough to send a shiver down Joar’s spine. “All those things I said to you that day… You want to prove your worth. You haven’t given up hope yet, on becoming the most acclaimed musician of our Age.”

Was it what Joar wanted? Well, it was as good a reason as any, he supposed. In truth, he was dreadfully  _bored_. “If the rumours are true, if the…Great Lord can make me immortal… I would have all the time in the world to improve, to show them all who truly is the best musician.” He hesitated, but only for a moment. He’d come all the way here, despite his reluctance to face Elan, even after all this time. Despite the fact that Elan seemed to be in charge around here, which meant that Joar would have to obey him. His mind was set. He had nothing to lose anyway. Elan had been right all along: those who denied the Shadow were doomed. The Great Lord couldn’t be defeated. The only way to survive was to accept it. “With the power granted me, I would destroy my rivals.”

Elan nodded approvingly. “Good. Very good. I was afraid that you would require more nudging and coercing, but I see that you have at last gained some maturity, and perhaps even some common sense,” he said good-naturedly.

Joar had the disagreeable impression that Elan was trying to be…friendly. “You needn’t cajole me, Elan,” he said wryly. Elan’s eyes flashed with sudden anger, presumably at the use of the name he’d spurned, but he kept silent. “I’ve made my decision. I want to join the Shadow. I want the power and-”

“You shall have it all,” Elan interrupted him smoothly. “The fame, the glory. But first, you must pledge your soul to the Great Lord. You must serve Him.”

That part, Joar wasn’t looking forward to, but it was a necessary evil. “Of course. The Great Lord can have my soul, whatever’s left of it,” he said bitterly.

Elan nodded. “I can take you to Shayol Ghul myself. Whenever you’re read-”

“I’d rather someone else did,” Joar declared firmly.

Elan’s eyes darkened, but his face didn’t change. He gestured carelessly. “As you wish. Graendal should be available. I’ll call for her.” He glanced at a _zomara_ and the creature, reading his mind, departed to relay Elan’s orders.

“What name shall I take for myself?” Joar wondered, more to break the uncomfortable silence than out of real interest.

Elan smiled thinly. “The Great Lord will give you a new name.”

Joar frowned. “But I thought… Mierin…”

“ _Lanfear_ was an exception. She was the one who opened the Bore. She made all of this possible. Well, it would have happened sooner or later, but she set the events in motion. A name of her own choosing was her reward.”

“What about you, _Elan_? Didn’t you get to choose? You’re the Great Lord’s favourite, aren’t you?” Joar said with a smirk.

“Lews Therin named me Ishamael,” he murmured. “Humankind embraced the name, and the Great Lord deemed it fitting.”

It really was. Elan’s betrayal had sparked riots and worse; it had led to the Collapse as surely as the Drilling had. It had been the beginning of the end. “Very well. I’ll take whatever He gives me,” Joar said with a shrug.

A chiming noise announced a visitor. Elan channeled to remove the traps that no doubt lay everywhere around the room and allowed the newcomer to open a gateway. She was a voluptuous blonde, barely covered by a streith gown. Graendal, the ‘Vessel of Pleasure’, formerly known as Kamarile Maradim Nindar, strode inside Elan’s study as though she owned the place. She paused besides Joar, but didn’t spare him a glance.

“You summoned me, Great Master?” Graendal said. Her tone was appropriately deferent, but she let some of her impatience seep into it.

Elan nodded briefly. “Graendal, you will take Nessosin to Shayol Ghul. The Great Lord has been expecting him.”

Joar gulped reflexively at that. Had it all been foreseen? Was he truly so predictable?

Graendal bowed shallowly. “As you command.” Her golden head swivelled to Joar. Her keen blue eyes regarded him with unconcealed disdain. “Well, go on, then. I don’t have all day.”

Joar glanced at Elan, but he’d already dismissed them, apparently. Joar felt a twinge of disappointment. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from his former lover, but this wasn’t it.

 

 

_Darkness within!_

Ishamael vaporised another _zomara_ out of sheer frustration and despair.

 _Joar, what have you done? What were you thinking, coming here?_ After everything Elan-

_Ishamael! You are Ishamael, and have been for quite some time, now. You would do well to remember it._

_Shut up! Let me think, for pity’s sake!_

He took three calming breaths, slow and steady. What was done, was done. If he’d turned Joar down, if he’d sent away one of the most powerful male channelers alive – though Joar had surprisingly never bragged about _that_ – the Great Lord would have known, and He would have punished Ishamael for it, most likely by killing Joar. There was nothing to be done about it now.

His efforts had all been in vain. Ishamael had sacrificed his relationship with Joar for nothing. He’d hoped that crushing Joar’s dreams – that effectively crushing his heart – would keep him away from the Shadow, knowing that Ishamael led the Great Lord’s Chosen. He’d never imagined that Joar would willingly agree to obey Ishamael in order to get what he wanted.

But Joar didn’t even know what he wanted, did he? Ishamael had kept a close watch on him in the past century. There had been nothing good to witness. Joar was a husk, a shadow of his former self. Ishamael had caused more damage than he’d assumed, more than he’d meant to. He’d broken the man.

And now he’d sent him on the path to eternal damnation.

 

 

“ARISE, ASMODEAN. ARISE, AND BECOME WHAT YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE. SERVE ME, AND YOUR MUSIC WILL FOREVER RESONATE IN THE HEARTS OF MEN.”

Joar had sunk to his knees. He was gaping, he was shaking, he was crying, he was laughing. He couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t suffocating. His heart was pounding, but he didn’t feel light-headed; on the contrary, he felt more invigorated than ever. If this was the new him, he would become the most accomplished musician in less than a week, and take over the world before the end of the month.

 _Asmodean_. The Great Lord had a sense of humour, it seemed. Joar, had he been able to feel insulted by the plainness of his new name, might have resented the Great Lord for it. But truly, what better name could be granted him? He was the Musician. _The_ Musician. The one and only.

He shuddered as the Voice spoke again, feeling as though every cell in his body were melting and freezing at the same time. “THE ONE AND ONLY,” it concurred. “GO FORTH AND BRING ME GLORY, MUSICIAN. SPREAD YOUR MUSIC AS YOU SPREAD MY GOOD WORD. GO FORTH AND BRING THEM TO THEIR KNEES IN MY NAME.”

“As you command, Great Lord,” Asmodean murmured reverently, “so shall it be done.”


End file.
